


The Best Pie in the Universe

by ElizabethGreenleaf



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic), Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Future Fic, Haus Ghosts - Freeform, M/M, slight AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-14
Updated: 2016-09-16
Packaged: 2018-08-08 17:35:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7767034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElizabethGreenleaf/pseuds/ElizabethGreenleaf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester has encountered transcendental pie three times in his life, all from the same baker but never in the same place.</p><p>Eric Bittle's pies are transformative--Everyone in his life, from his Moo-maw to his boyfriend can tell you that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

If you were to ask Dean Winchester about the best pie he ever had, well, you would be privy to seeing an soft, foreign look come over his face. It involves a gentling of the eyes, a wistful upturn of the lips and a serene, calming air settling about him. If you were to see him eat said pie, you would be treated to pornographic noises of appreciation and a blissed out expression only his bed partners were typically privileged to see.

The world was ending (again) and there was some discussion about final meals while Sam, Cas and Dean sat at a diner booth waiting for their salad and cheeseburgers, respectively.

“There isn’t one place. I’ve stumbled upon this baker three times now. He’s not at a restaurant or bakery but when I run into him.his pies are—magnificent.” He was going to say ‘to die for’ but that was a little to close for comfort.


	2. 2nd Runner Up, Apple Pie, Maddison County Fair, Georgia c. August 2003

Sammy was off at college in California, his dad was, well who the fuck knew where (Wyoming? Idaho?) not in the Impala with Dean, that was all he was certain of. He still wasn’t used to being alone, you know? So he’d developed a habit of stoping at county fairs to be around groups of people. 

Presumably, if his father had asked, he was there to get a pulse on the local goings on, see if his services were needed. He didn’t have to justify his every move to his father but a lifetime of doing so didn’t stop overnight. He was a “Grown Ass Man” and should “Think For Himself” (Sammy’s phrases, said soothingly to Dean—a juxtaposition to the way he roared at Dad—as he packed his meager belongings and left). 

Ultimately it didn’t matter how he justified it. At a fair he stood out less as an outsider, didn’t have to talk unless he wanted to, and it gave him a chance to just be himself in a way his other regular past time—drinking and picking up in a roadside bar—didn’t. 

It didn’t hurt that fairs had pie. Really good pies. 

The smell of buttery, fresh baked goodness on the wind drew him by the nose to the right tent. The slur was as much the smell as the taste. There was a painful nostalgia of his too few years with his mother’s baking and the fact that no matter what he’d been up to, fresh baked pie cut through the awful odors that permitted the membraned of his nose in ways he thought would never leave—until pie. 

Salt and burns were okay when they were dealing with mostly old bones but fresher corpses, like the one from two days prior, combined with lighter fluid and the smell of cooking rotting flesh…well, it was a smell that stuck with you. 

Pie fixed that. And Dean trusted his nose to find the best of the bunch. Which was how he found himself standing in front of blue gingham covered table and looking at the 2nd runner up and their pie. The sign on the table read “2nd Runner up, Eric Bittle.”

An older, grandmotherly woman, hair gone dray and pulled back in a practical knot, stood with her hands on the shoulders of a blond boy, eight years old at most. The little boy looked torn between exhaustion, elation and disappointing. 

Dean had always had a soft spot for kids. Maybe it had been all those years taking care of Sammy, maybe it was something else. “Is this your award?” Dean asked, couching down so he could be on level with the boy who nodded, shyly. “Congratulations. That’s an awfully big accomplishment.” 

The “Thank you, sir,” was quiet but sincere; he blushed a deep scarlet. 

“He refused to enter the junior’s competition and wanted his pie in there with all the adults. He could have swept the juniors but he insisted.” The older woman explained, clearly beaming with pride.

“Moo maw!” He groaned. 

“The judge said he needs to work on his lattice skills and that the edge was a little uneven but that it was one of the best darn things he ever tasted.” 

“Well, a pretty pie never wins compared to a tasty pie in my book. I should know, I try enough of them when I travel.” Dean turned his megawatt smile on them both. 

Eric looked at him with a bit of awe. “You gets to travel and eat pie?”

Dean chuckled. “Yeah, kid. One of the perks of the job.”

“What do you do?”

“Oh you know, family business.”

The little boy noted gravely. “Family is important.” 

“What do you want to be when you grow up?”

“A figure skating baker!” 

Dean smiled again and apparently said just the right thing with, “Maybe I’’ll get to see you compete some day on TV.” 

The little boy looked like he might faint from happiness at the thought. 

“So, how much for a pie?” 

Dean bought two, sight untasted and was handed a little mini pie as well—so he could sneak a bite before he got home, Moo maw said with a wink. 

The first bite was heaven. just sweet enough, flaky crust and the filling. God. Dean’s eyes had fluttered shut. He had no control over his facial expressions or the groan he let out. Something about the pie screamed love and welcome and home in a way few other foods did. The only thing that came to mid was Bobby’s chili, which warmed you from the inside out and made you feel satisfied and content. 

Eric Bittle’s pie though…it was transcendent. 

“Kid, after you win the olympics and open your own bakery, I don't care where it is or where I live I am going to be a regular.”

Eric giggled. “What’s your name?”

“Dean. Dean Winchester.”


	3. Blue Ribbon, First Place, Peach Pie at Georgia State Fair, Atlanta Georgia c. October 2013

Guilt is eating Dean from the inside out. The Angels fell and it is all their fault. Cas is…somewhere Dean can’t protect him and his brother is being ridden boy an angel and doesn’t know it.

Sick with it all (grief, guilt, loneliness, anger), Dean drinks too much and goes on long drives and tries not to of both at the same time if only because he loves Baby, his 67’ Chevy Impala, too much. 

Sometimes he still talks to Cas (prays, he doesn’t say) even if his Angel Radio is turned off. Old habits. Hard to break. 

Dean pulls into a dirt road and crashes in the back seat, unsure of the date or even what sate he is in. The next morning, he wears up with a killer tension headache from the brink in his neck and there is a billboard when he pulls back on the street proclaiming “163 Annual Georgia State Fair 65 miles ahead.” 

Dean paid to park and paid to get in and barely saw or heard the things around him. He let himself be enveloped by the early morning crowd and followed his stomach—the one organ that rarely lead him astray (heart, brain, and dick lead him astray more often than he cared to contemplate).

Deep fried everything. A cheeseburger served on a glazed doughnut. Pie.

The pie tasting contest had been the day before apparently and before he knew it, Dean was on a mission. There was suddenly no doubt in his mind that he would be there. The little boy with the perfect pies. 

It was a sixth sense, a pie sense maybe, that made Dean turn, zig, zag, and—there. Taller, older, and just as blond. Dean stood, staring before he approached. The table sold pie by the slice and whole and Dean strongly suspected was covered with the same blue gingham table cloth as last time.

“Hello! How ya doin’ today?” he asked in his sweet Georgia drawl.

Dean managed a smile from somewhere but words were still beyond him. 

“Wait a—we’ve met before. I never forget a face.” The blond young man said critically, wracking his brain, hand on hip.

Dean laughed, surprising himself. It might have been the first time he’d laughed in weeks. “Yeah kid.” His voice sounded rusty with disuse. “Must have been a decade ago.” 

Recognition lit in his eyes and his smile got brighter. “You bought two apple pies! I remember being envious that you got to travel for work and eat pie all the time.”

Dean laughed again. “Yeah. still do. Not as much good pie out there these days.”

“We’ll have to fix that.” The boy looked positively thrilled. “What are you thinkin’ of this time?”

“Well, apparently there is a ‘Blue Ribbon, first place, Peach’ I think I’ll have to try.” Dean winked and Eric blushed. 

Dean lingered at the table, not because the pie was good, or the boy was cute (if certainly still underage), but because he was having a normal conversation with young man who didn’t know the world was falling apart. It was like talking to a little ball of sunshine and Dean reveled in the warmth after years in darkness.

“How are your Olympics prospects going?” Dean asked.

“Came in first in the South East Regional Championship last year.” Bitty smiled but behind the facade Dean could see the stress, the fissures. 

“Do you still skate?” Dean remembers the year he gave up hunting.

“Hockey now. We moved back to Maddison, Coach got a new job and it means we are closer to Moo-Maw again, but I’m too far away from Katya to keep up my training.” It was a well rehearsed speech. Dean wondered if the boy was starting to believe it, the same way he and Sammy did when they talked about where their father was or where they lived. 

“I’m a terrible host. Mama would have my hide if she knew I hadn’t asked after you. How are you doing?”

Dean couldn’t begin to describe the amount of awful that was his life. Instead he opted for the charming answer: “Better now that I get to have your pie again.” It was a sincere compliment. 

Dean bought peach, cherry, and apple pies. And a little bag of vegan chocolate chip cookies for his brother. 

“See you around, Eric Bittle. Keep smilin’ and bakin’ you make the world a happier place.”

“See ya, Dean, was it?” 

Dean nodded, letting himself be swallowed up by the crowd. He was not ashamed to admit that he ate most of that peach pie between Georgia and Kansas. 

Back at the bunker, he handed the cookies to Sammy as a peace offering before he could start bitching. Looking suspiciously at the bag withe fancy ribbon he opened it and popped a cookie on his mouth. “Holly shit, what is in these? These can’t be vegan!” 

Dean smiled again, a little pang in his heart at the same time. The only thing that could have made it better was if Cas was there to join them.


	4. Mixed Berry Hand Pie, Niagara Falls, c. July 2014

Mixed Berry Hand Pie, Niagara Falls, July 2014

 

Dean’s life (or after life, maybe? demonic existence?) had an ebb and flow of consistency to it. 

Get drunk. 

Have sex. 

Help people make deals with the devil. Demon. King of Hell. Crowley.

Do things with his new BFF Crowley that the little human part of him inside was appalled at (and that is saying something). 

Sleep it off.

Ignore the rumors/hints/neon signs that indicated Sam and Cas looking for him. He was a demon now. He didn’t care about them. All he cared about was doing his job so he could make it back to the bar—it was karaoke night. 

But first? He needed to bring a soul back with him. 

Ten years of acrobatic marvels and impossible had Marco, the last of the Levitating Lorenzos, advertising his last and great stunt—a solo walk across the Falls with an impossibly short balance pole. The bookies in Vegas had bets going on the success of his crossing. 

Marco advertised this as his “last great stunt before I retire from public life.” 

There would be no followup interviews. Marco knew this. Dean knew this.

Dean watched, and waited, as Marco defied all the odds and crossed a raging river on a perilously thin wire with dogged determination. It could also have been that he knew that there were hellhounds at his heals and the demon waiting on the other side was a better option. 

Sitting on the outside deck of a bar, Dean sipped his fourth beer while two moose-sized bros hung onto each other, cheering Marco on. 

Dean felt no pang of remembrance or regret. No though of camaraderie between friends or brothers. There was no though about how his brother, the “Moose” to his “squirrel,” would measure up to the two twenty-something boys who had to play some sport or another. Football maybe? 

“Celebratory hand pie time!” The blond cried out as soon as Marco’s foot touched land. His dark haired companion whooped loudly (and obnoxiously) as they pulled a plastic box out of a backpack.

“Bits must be feeling better if he was up for baking.” One of them said, opening the box.  
“Still can’t believe he mailed us celebratory pie. ‘Sawesome. Dozens of celebratory pies!” 

Dean didn’t mean to pay attention to them or to the amazing smell that wafted out of the box. 

They say smell is the strongest sense for triggering memory. Perhaps that was why Dean froze, beer half way to his lips, wanting, for the first time since he became a demon, food. Pie, to be specific. 

“Dude, celebratory pies for everyone!” The blond said loud enough for everyone on the porch to hear.

Perhaps the bartender or manager would have complained, but they were quickly fed pies and their objections seemed to die on their tongues. Followed by bedroom-appropriate moans of delight. 

Dean, one eye on the trembling Marco who could certainly hear the hell hounds coming for him but was trying to keep it together for a last few memorable photos, was handed a pie. 

“What am I supposed to do with this?” He asked the bro who handed it to him sarcastically. 

“Uh, eat it? Bits makes the best pie. You won’t regret it. Unless, like you are vegan or gluten intolerant, or cant eat berries.”

“Nah, kid, it’ll be fine.” Dean knocked back the rest of his beer before really looked at the small pastry. It was heart shaped with carefully pressed edges and a small heart cut out to vent steam. Some dark purple-red filling had leaked out and looked almost like the heart was bleeding. 

The flaky pastry and sweet-tart filling exploded in his mouth. His tongue was registering flavors he'd forgotten or maybe never knew were possible. It was a simple pleasure, but somehow just as satisfying as the time spent with the last person he’d tumbled into bed. He let out an inappropriate moan of his own.

“Just that good, am I right?” The darker skinned bro asked with a knowing smile.

Dean snapped out of his pleasurable fog. He had a job to do. He ate the last few bites—not savoring them like he wanted and certainly not thinking about the other great pies he’d ever had. He had a job to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> But E, wasn't there a *different* chapter 4 before?
> 
> Yes. Yes there was. 
> 
> Ah, Chapter 4. I wrote it, posted it, and then didn't love how it jived with the rest of the bits (this is what happens when you write the beginning and end with no middle). So I am reworking the old chapter 4 (it will now be part of 6....I think). I kind of like the idea of Dean encountering Bitty's pie through the other Haus residents before bringing it all together. 
> 
> So, I hope this works for you!


	5. Lemon Square-tartlets with Almond Shortbread Crust, Boston, Massachusetts c. August 2014

Larissa “Lardo” Dunn Saturday on a wooden stool near the cash register of her grandmother’s produce market, a drawing pad and pencil on the counter. The shop was small, specializing in the ingredients most called for in traditional Vietnamese cooking. While she wasn’t fluent in the language, she was haltingly passable and understood more than she could speak. 

The shop was barely larger than a garage, the front doors opening out to the street to invite shoppers in and doubling the space available. 

Summers, weekends, after school, Lardo worked at the market. When she was fifteen she came up with ways to manage inventory and reduce waste (for such a creative child she was equally analytical). Somehow this had translated into her college school year job of managing the Samwell Men’s Hockey Team. The Samwell boys in turn taught her to be extra suspicious.

The man who came in next made her look twice. She was not intimidated by his height—he may have been as tall as Holster but he was built more like Shitty. He was wearing a Carheart jacket over plaid (was that flannel?) shirt on an eighty plus degree day and he had flow that was well on its way to being praise-worthy. 

“Can I help you with something?” Her voice was a touch too sarcastic for politeness, but something felt…off about this man.

“I’m looking for bà ngoại Yen.” He named her grandmother. What was unusual was that he used the term for grandmother that only she herself had reason to use. It was the one that meant “maternal grandmother” and as she was the only grandchild, she was the only one to call her that. It could have been a mistake but Lardo suddenly doubted it.

Rather than let on that she found him suspicious, she flirted a bit. After all, he was undeniably attractive and she wouldn’t mind if he offered to pose for her. “Are you sure there isn’t something I can help you with?” She decided against the hair flip—that was going a step too far.

He looked almost shy or apologetic when he explained, “I’m a friend of Bobby Singer’s.”

Lardo’s eyebrow crawled up towards her hair line.

Hunter. Her brain provided. 

Her grandmother did her best to shield her children and granddaughter from the things in the world that none of them should know anything about. But Lardo had met Bobby once when he was passing through town with Rufus. She met them because she’d seen…it. Something. A monster. A creature impossible to believe. It hadn’t harmed her, but it had been close, breathing on the other side of her closet door. When Bobby and Rufus found her, she was crying for bà ngoại, her grandmother, and the only other person who had been home at the time. 

The encounter had left a lasting impression. She was no hunter but she understood some basics or defense. She was almost surprised at how easy it was to keep the essentials on hand in her dorm, at Faber, in her studio, and especially at the Haus. Rock salt in New England was easy to explain away—it was always hard to find when you needed it so she always had some on hand. She was prepared like that. She took to welding large sculptures and enjoyed the challenges (and usefulness) of wrought and cast iron. Ever since Shitty had taken to having her help prepare Tub Juice for Haus parties, she always offered to mix the Kool-aid component up. What she never mentioned was that she made it with holy water. So far she had scared off at least three demons (or something else that couldn’t tolerate the stuff) that she was aware of. 

Lardo snapped back to the present and realized that she was staring. “Through the door in the back and down the stairs. I’ll let her know you’re coming.” Laredo pressed a hidden button under the counter that unlocked the door and rang the buzzer downstairs in the real shop, the one the dealt in far rarer items than water spinach and bitter melon. 

Lardo followed the man with her eyes as he disappeared into the basement of the shop. She pulled a phone out of her pocket and dialed. “Bro. How quickly can you get here from Cambridge?” 

Lardo was pleasantly surprised when Shitty strolled through the door less than ten minutes later, his retro basketball shorts and tie-dye crop top making him a sight for sore eyes—or was that a sight to make eyes sore?

He lifted Lardo into a hug and she savored the peppermint shampoo and recently smoked pot smell that she associated with Shitty. 

“Bits sent snacks for my visit ‘home’ to pick up the stuff I left at my dad’s last month. I thought I’d share with you, and see if you had time to smoke with me before I had to head over.”

“I can’t right now, but after?” Lardo offered, Shitty looked a little disappointed so she added: “You can crash on my mom’s couch and then drive us back to Samwell tomorrow.”

She took Shitty’s octopus-like embrace and the petting of her hair as agreement. 

It was hard to open the holiday cookie tin that Bitty had sent with Shitty seeming unwilling to extricate himself from around her. “I miss cuddling you.” He complained before he could protest, her objections dying on her tongue. Once the container was finally open, she realized that rather than cookies, inside lay layers of little lemon tarts. 

“Bits knows you love lemon squares, but also that they don’t travel well. So he came up with something new for you. Lemon Square-tartlets with Almond Shortbread Crust.” While Lardo could not see Shitty’s face with him wrapped around her from behind, he was clearly radiating pride for remembering the whole name. 

Lardo’s eyes rolled back in her head with pleasure with the first bite. They were exactly what she was longing for and hadn’t known it. 

Over the next few minutes Lardo and Shitty popped little two bite morsels into their mouths while discussing everything and nothing. 

They were more or less back to being individual beings and not an awkward conglomeration of limbs when the backdoor opened. The tall stranger was back, looking a bit more ragged around the edges. 

“Dude you look a little…Quirel-like.” Lardo said when the man closed the door behind him.

“Huh?” He looked about a million miles away. 

“‘Troll. In the dungeon. Though you’d like to know.’ And faint.” Shitty mimed this as Lardo explained. 

“More like a Xương Cuồng that misses having humans to snack on, but yeah.” 

Lardo blinked. That was the name of a demon from stories, if she wasn’t mistaken. One the was only appeased with annual human sacrifices. 

There wasn’t a lot to say then. This was not something she knew how to help with, but she did the only thing she could—she held out the tin and asked: “Lemon bar in tart form?” Bitty would have been proud. 

“Sure, what the hell.” The tall man reached into the container, the mini tartlet dwarfed in his large hand. 

He took a bite and there was a moment, a long one, where he didn’t speak. 

“This is…incredible.” He blurted out “I’m not the pie guy in the family but this…this is something else. Where did you get these? I need to take my brother there some time.”

“One of our friends from college, Bitty. He made them. It’s his hobby.” Shitty explained with a puffed out chest. 

“Tell Bitty this should be more than a hobby.” 

“Maybe after college.” Lardo agreed. “He’ll need to do something to help maintain the pie-filled existence we have grown accustomed to. We go through withdrawal during breaks.” 

The tall man was about to respond when his phone dinged twice in quick succession with message alerts. Whatever they said did nothing to make him look any happier. “I’ve got to go. Thanks for the lemon-thing.”

“Your welcome. Sorry, I don’t think I caught your name before.” Shitty sounded a bit like the lawyer he someday would be when he offered his hand. 

They shook. “Sam. Sam Winchester.”

“Well Sam, I’m Lardo, this is Shitty,” she clapped the mustached man on the shoulder. “Good luck with your Xương Cuồng.”

“Thanks.”

They watched Sam leave (with a little work, he could have a fine hockey butt) before Shitty asked, “Who was he and what’s a Xương Cuồng?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No Dean or Bitty here, but I hope you enjoyed it anyways! One or two more chapters before I bring them all together.
> 
> Also, I know I need a beta. Anyone willing to help or point me in the direction of someone who can?


End file.
